It's All Fine
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: Genderswap. Johnlock. Pre-slash. One shot. A typical day at Baker Street.


"Yes!" Essie clicks her phone closed decisively and slips it into her pocket before pumping her fists, her jaw clenched and her eyes blazing. I know what this means immediately. _A case._

Smiling, I ask: "Lestrade? Does she want us to meet her?"

Essie's eyes are a brilliant, burning blue as she turns her gaze to me, one dark eyebrow peaked. "Oh yes, Jen. The game is on."

xXx

We're in the cab and Essie's got her left thumb pressed to her impossibly full bottom lip, her fingers wriggling impatiently in the crisp fall air. Her window is down a bit and an unlit cigarette twitches in her other hand. I know she won't light it, not until the case is over, but it gives me a little thrill to see it there. She's not Essie anymore, not right now. Right now she's S. Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world and the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. I smile at her, at the ridiculousness of her sharp cheekbones and perfectly tailored coat, and she beams at me with unabashed excitement. It's something like bloodlust shining in those feline eyes of hers, but I don't mind. I've seen that look in my own eyes before; I've been to war and back again.

I lean back against the seat and watch London roll past. My hands are still, untrembling; my leg feels great. My shoulder hasn't ached in days. Beside me, Essie's foot begins to shake.

xXx

We meet Lestrade at her office because she doesn't want us turning up at the crime scene unescorted. Apparently, most of the Yard consider us (well, Essie; they like me just fine) an annoyance and a distraction, and without Lestrade's calming presence, she worries there might be a something of a to-do. Knowing Essie's temper and tendency to speak her mind, I don't question this decision at all, but it visibly annoys my raven-haired flatmate, and she's silent in the squad car as Lestrade and I make small talk.

I like Lestrade. She's got kind eyes and short, gray hair. She wears her failed marriage in the lines of her face, and her guilt in the shadows under her eyes, but she's a good woman, intelligent and brave. I think she would've made a good soldier, had she gone that route. Though Essie never says so, it's apparently she holds some fondness for the woman as well. I don't know Essie's past, not like she knows mine (knew mine without me ever saying a word) but I know Lestrade helped her out of a serious rough patch some time ago, and I'm reasonably certain it involved illegal narcotics and a near-death experience. Whether Essie still does anything like that when I'm not around, I don't know, but I like to think she doesn't.

Lestrade eases the car up in front of a little brownstone with a trim, meticulous front garden. "Okay, S," she says, and I smile at the nickname (only Mr. Hudson and I dare to call her Essie, and nobody- _nobody_- except Essie's older sister calls her by her full name). "My understanding is that this is a pretty…messy scene. I've had the techs hold off on clean-up until you could take a look around, though, so everything should be just as it was when the killer vanished."

Essie snorts. "_Should be_ and _will be_ are not often the same when referring to anything in the hands of the Scotland Yard." Not waiting for Lestrade's response, she slips out of the car and practically saunters up the garden path. I blink at her for a moment, quietly smitten, before hopping out and jogging after her.

The house is horrifying, blood splashed all over the kitchen like someone had sprayed it there with a hose, but if Essie is perturbed at all she hides it incredibly well. Me, I was an army doctor. I've seen my share of blood. Wordlessly, I slip on a pair of gloves and stand to the side, letting Essie do what she does.

She's so in her element, her sharp eyes intensely focused and her mouth screwed up in concentration. Magnifying glass in hand, she pauses over the most trivial parts of the room, making small sounds in her throat.

It takes her less than an hour to figure out what happened, and only a few minutes to explain it. We're back at the flat before the sun's even set, the smell of tobacco smoke clinging to Essie's coat.

xXx

Wrapped in a royal blue bathrobe, Essie drapes over the couch with the theatrics of a Victorian heroine, her arm flung over her forehead. It's nearly midnight, and I'm sitting cross-legged in my favorite chair, a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other. Probably for my sake, Essie groans loudly and shifts, her pale legs jutting from the robe and flumping over the back of the couch. I peek at her from the top of my book, hiding my smile, and turn my attention back to the pages. I'm not absorbing any words, however, because Essie has slipped down so that her head and shoulders are on the floor and she's moaning pitifully: "Booooooooored." It's apparent she's not going to let me relax, so I set my book down and sigh patiently.

"Shall we play Cluedo?" I ask, my tone pleasant and just a touch teasing. "I won't even say anything this time when you cheat."

"It's not cheating if the rules are _wrong_," Essie drones, her eyes rolled back. I glance at the stretch of her long white neck and find myself hurriedly looking away, my face hot. I don't know what it is about Essie, but none of my relationships have worked out very well since I've moved in. Men can be very jealous, and even more so if they catch you staring with something like adoration at your stunning, haughty, intimidating, other-worldly, and decidedly female flatmate. I don't think I've ever looked at another woman the way I look at her, but then I've never met another woman like her. I've never met another _person_ like her. Miss Holmes is in a category all her own.

As though she can sense the new direction of my thoughts, she hops up and paces over to me, leaning with both hands on the armrests of my chair. "Dance with me," she commands in that impossibly growl of hers.

I can't help it; I know I'm flushed pink now. "Wh-what?"

"Dance with me," she drawls, impatient. She sticks out her hand, both eyebrows raised delicately. "The Yard hosts a Yule Ball each year, you know, and you'll want to know how to dance properly."

I laugh and stand up, a little surprised at the creakiness of it. "And how do you know-"

An emphatic sigh, a rush of words: "Your steps, Jen, the way you walk. Your upbringing, your education, your military history, and the pressure you put on your heels when you jump." Essie yawns and spins her fingers in an "isn't it obvious?" gesture. "I know you're not a dancer, but I'm confident enough in my own abilities. Perhaps I can see to it that you won't be entirely embarrassing come Christmas."

"You have such a way with words," I mutter, taking my place in front of her. She smirks and places my hands just so, one hand on her surprisingly firm bicep, the other in her palm. She puts her other hand on my hip, and we begin to circle the room slowly, Essie humming something that sounds like big-band under her breath. It's a little uncomfortable, her body so close to mine and her eyes so intense, the color of her irises impossible to decipher at the moment (but always blue when we're on a case, bright intense icy blue, and a sort of muddy hazel when she's bored to the point of being dangerous). Right now they're a bright and liquid green, light near the pupil and darker at the edges until they're nearly black. _Nobody's eyes have any right looking like that_, I think.

"Stop trying to lead," she hisses, and I blink, glance down at my feet. Essie takes her hand from my hip with a long-suffering sigh and tips my chin upwards. "Don't look at your feet; it will make you clumsy. Eyes on mine." Her hand drops back down and pulls me half an inch closer; my breath catches, quickens, shallows.

It's impossible to say how it happens or when it happens but I eventually find that we've stopped moving. Essie is looking at me like I'm a puzzle that needs solving, and I'm sure I'm looking up at her with undisguised awe. I just can't understand it, I can't understand how anyone so beautiful and brilliant and _sharp _can look at me, with my military-tight bun and snubbed nose and lousy old jumper…like _that_. Like I'm worth dissecting, worth examining, worth scrutinizing. It's not like military inspections or the wolfish grins of the boys back in the desert; this is different. Essie's looking at me like she can see my every thought and she wants to memorize each and everyone one of them. She's not looking at me as though I'm the most interesting thing in the room; she's looking at me like I'm the _only _thing in the room, or maybe in the entire universe. Her focus is laser-concentrated, and I'm her only point of interest.

"Interesting," she breathes, tipping her face a little closer to mine.

I clear my throat, straighten my back. Try to regain some modicum of dignity. "What's interesting?" I ask, unsurprised but still embarrassed by the huskiness of my voice.

She smiles, and I light up a little because it's the real one, the rare one, and not the one she flashes at ordinary people when she wants to get her way. "Nothing," she grins, taking a step away from me, her hands falling to her side. Her hair is wild around her pale face and I want, almost desperately, to smooth it back and kiss her preposterous cheeks. Still smiling, Essie says, "You're tired; there are circles under your eyes. Go to bed, Jennifer."

_Jennifer_. It's funny how parental Essie can be, sometimes. Most days she's like a prattish child, kicking her feet until she gets her way, but then there are times like this when she's clearly decided she is my superior. I chuckle, shake my head, and mumble, "Yes, _ma'am_," before heading upstairs and falling into bed quite obediently. I click off the lamp, but it's a long time before my heart settles and sleep catches up with me.

xXx

I wake up to find my blanket drifting away from me and on to the lean, slender form of a lightly snoring consulting detective. With a groan, I tug and tug- but Essie's got her impossible limbs all tangled up in my blanket and it seems there is no choice but to press my back right up against hers and drape one mercifully free corner of the quilt over my stomach. I don't know what she's doing in my bed- honestly, I'm not even sure I've ever seen her actually sleep before; I've only ever seen her doze like a cat, slitting her eyes open at every noise or movement- but I don't mind. She's warm against me, her soft hair brushing the nape of my neck.

Suddenly, she juts out an elbow, right into my spine, and I let out a sharp breath and a muttered curse. A groggy sound wanders from her to me in the darkness; if I didn't know better (and, if I'm honest, I don't) I'd think she just told me to shut up.

I sit up and click the light on, drawing a muffled groan from Essie, who tugs the blankets more firmly around her and steals my pillow, pulling it over her head.

"Oh no you don't, you rotten sod," I cry, yanking my pillow back over and slamming it down on my side of the bed with a satisfying thump.

She sits up, wild-haired and wild-eyed, and slaps her palm against the cold sheet. "I'm trying to sleep. Clearly," she growls, as though I'm the one intruding into her personal space.

"This is _my _bed!"

Essie merely snorts and tugs my pillow back over to her side. "If you think you can honestly prevent me from doing as I wish, please help yourself to try or else stop annoying me with your blather." She flumps back down onto the bed and pulls my quilt over her head, sliding one pale arm out to click off the lamp before drawing it back under the blanket with a rustle of movement.

I stare at her, almost uncomprehending, for about thirty seconds. "You. Are. Unbelievable," I huff under my breath, before reaching over her and clicking the lamp back on. That does it: the quilt and pillow fall to the floor as we tustle mercilessly. I'm strong- not as strong as I was in the military, mind, but I still have it in me- but Essie's quick, and smart, and it's a close fight. Still, I manage to neatly pin her flailing limbs with my much steadier ones in just under four minutes.

"Let! Me! Go!" she pants, kicking and growling, and I just laugh easily and move both of her bony wrists to one hand, freeing the other. I take my free hand and cup her chin.

"There," I say, not even trying to pretend at modesty. "I think I've proven my point. Now, we can share this bed nicely, or you can go back downstairs. Your choice, Essie."

She stops writhing beneath me and pouts prettily. "Yes, fine, very clever. Put it in your blog, won't you? 'London's most famous sleuth, bested by the brute strength of her cruel and heartless flatmate.' If you need a quote, you know where to find me."

"Har, har," I drone, rolling off her and falling on to my back. My arm is still across her stomach, my leg pressed to hers, and we're both still panting from our fight.

"Jen," she says suddenly, her voice filling the room.

I'm tired, my eyes drooping. "Mmm?"

"Remember at Angelo's, the day after we first met?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I told you that I'm married to my work."

My eyes open instantly. "Essie-"

"How do you feel about open relationships?"

I roll on to my side and peer into her smirking face. Beneath that cool, smug exterior, there's a touch of genuine nervousness in her pale eyes that I find unfathomably attractive. "Essie, what are you…?" I trail off. I'm so unsure of this, so worried about making a misstep, that I feel as frozen as a rabbit in headlamps.

She smiles, slow and sweet. "I'm not well versed in this," she whispers, leaning up on her elbows, "but I think you're supposed to kiss me now."

By God, I think she's right.


End file.
